


Papier-mâché, Spilled Coffee, and Other Travesties

by librarybooks



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Early in Canon, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Light Angst, Prank Wars, au where the siblings are friends and vanya is included, five is back and klaus inadvertently starts a prank war, honestly barely angst it's canon typical, i feel like i need to say that I DONT ship allison and luther, rated t cause five has a potty mouth wbk, that's it that's the fic, the family likes messing with each other ok, they're siblings thanks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-01-14 12:52:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18476617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/librarybooks/pseuds/librarybooks
Summary: It begins with a missing domino mask.Or: the Hargreeves siblings are reunited for the first time in 16 years, and Klaus instigates a prank war.





	1. Of Boys and Masks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just kids bein' kids, the way they deserved to be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *inhales* tua is taking over my life
> 
> inspired by [this](https://outoftheframework.tumblr.com/post/183499450845/things-the-umbrella-academy-have-100-done-during) tumblr post!

It begins with a missing domino mask.

They’re not hard to lose, as small and throwaway things tend to be for children; but there’s only six masks, and Luther is certain it sat on the table just five minutes earlier, as unassuming around the house as tube socks or blazers.

The thief is unknown, although Luther swears it’s Klaus — it would explain the laughter coming from his bedroom, and none of the other Hargreeves children have his tricky hands or the twinkle of mischief in their eyes.

He searches every floor of the Academy, and he can’t find it. He’s thrown an absolute hissy fit — “I’m Number One, I’m your leader!” — and it’s glorious. Diego rewards Klaus with a fist bump even as Klaus denies his involvement.

“It wasn’t me, man.”

Diego’s grin is as sharp as his knives. “Sure.”

Luther crashes through the room, frazzled, and Diego gets up to leave. He spares Number One a glance of thinly veiled disdain. “Stop breaking everything, jackass.”

Luther turns to face his brother. Diego’s arms cross, his eyebrows slanted, and Luther suddenly thinks he blamed Klaus too soon. “Did you — ”

“No, I didn’t.”

An exhale. Luther closes his mouth, opens it again. “Are you sure — ”

“Yes, Number One, I’m positive.”

Diego’s shoulders rise minutely, hackles on an angry cat, and Klaus presses his lips into a thin line. His expression is of pained amusement, the face he makes when he has to suck back a laugh in the middle of one of Reginald’s lectures. Ben, wide-eyed, stands by his side.

He tugs on the sleeve of Klaus’ blazer, whispering, “Are you sure it wasn’t you?”

“Of course not,” Klaus shakes his head, but the curve of a grin twitches at the corner of his mouth.

“‘Of course’ you didn’t or ‘of course’ you did?”

Klaus says nothing, but when he hears Luther stumbling around the house, desperately searching so as not to disappoint their father, his lips curl into a smile.

 

 

Thirty minutes on Sunday.

The span of time that the Hargreeves siblings grow to love — just a half hour, those precious thirty minutes in the middle of the day. It’s the first segment of time they’ve ever known without outside responsibilities choking them, the only thirty minutes they have without wracking their bodies until they ache. It’s a breath of fresh air, a sense of freedom, an escape.

To those beyond the academy doors, there are no shackles on the Hargreeves. To grow up amongst superheroes seems a dream, and the Umbrella Academy is illustrious, brimming with children rife with untapped potential. It’s known for its excellence for good reason.

But the Academy is also a boarding school, a training camp, a mansion stuffed with kids who suffer through the strain of superheroism. It is not a paradise, except for Sunday afternoons.

Luther sometimes plays tag, or reads at the dining table with Allison. He has difficulty shaking the title of “Number One,” even at playtime.

Diego trains. He tapes photos to his dartboard and throws knives at them for fun.

Allison experiments with makeup and reads magazines, knowing that one day, she’ll be among the ranks of Hollywood stars.

Klaus starts fires in his free time, just because he can. The brightness of the flame distracts from the darkness that creeps up on him when he’s alone.

Number Five isn’t an avid participant in family activities to begin with, so thirty minutes on Sunday is nothing to him — his concept of time has always differed from his siblings’, and he doesn’t care to associate with them, because they’re a bunch of tragedies and he’d do well to deal with his own trauma. He disappeared when they were thirteen.

Ben reads. It’s a new book every weekend, somehow. His shelf is carefully stacked and kept away from Klaus, because when exposed to fire, books had a tendency to burn.

Vanya always plays violin.

It’s the same every Sunday, a simple routine and fairly tame given their abilities. The case of the missing domino mask was a standalone incident for a few months, just an odd thirty minutes where the children broke away from the status quo.

Then it happens again.

It’s definitely Klaus this time, because he tells Ben about clipping both Luther and Diego’s masks to the clothesline with their underwear. Ben doesn’t think it’s as funny as Klaus does, but the sight of Luther raging through the house is enough to make him smile.

“Klaus,” The clothesline floats in the breeze, proudly displaying the two masks between their boxers like ornaments. Ben looks over his shoulder and raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

“They ate all the Lucky Charms,” Klaus says, flippant, as if it were obvious. “Even the box I stashed under the sink. This is justice served.”

“I don’t think — ” Ben crosses his arms. “Okay, but you could’ve just asked Mom to buy us more cereal.”

“That’s beside the point. It’s like we’re shoving their faces in our underwear,” Klaus chuckles, and Ben gives his brother a look of tired resignation.

“The laundry is clean, you know.”

“Yeah, but it’s still, like, in your face, Number One.”

Ben shakes his head. “Whatever you say.”

When Luther finds the masks, he tears down the entire clothesline. Klaus doubles over with laughter, and a mortified Ben has to drag him into the house before Luther can wrap them with the string. They race through the halls, both panicked and elated, and lock their bedroom doors before Luther or Diego can reach them.

Ben is terrified for days after, but Klaus assures him it will be fine. What could their brothers do, kill them? Reginald would have their asses mounted above the fireplace without hesitance. It could be said that Klaus is used to getting away with most things because he’s crafty, which is a cousin of handy. He doesn’t expect retaliation.

His own mask goes missing the following week, and so does the duvet cover from his bed.

The mask he finds easily enough, tucked high on a shelf, because Luther is severely lacking in creativity. His blanket, however, ends up downstairs, impaled with knives and draped like a tapestry on the wall.

Klaus tugs it down and it’s dirtier than he remembers it being, stained and riddled with holes. He fingers the tears in the fabric, and for the first time, Klaus feels the fire of competition shoot through his veins.

Next Sunday, Diego finds his domino mask in a peanut butter jar. He tosses it into the sink and cracks his knuckles, treading up the stairwell to Klaus’ room. When Klaus sees him, he runs.

Ben fills Luther’s bed with individual pieces of bread. Among them, just one slice is slathered in jelly. Luther peels it off the back of his neck the next morning and blames Diego.

A photo of Luther appears on Diego’s dartboard the next day. He has plans to do something to their leader, and Number One knows. Luther can see it when they lock eye contact, he feels it as shivers run down his spine. Something is coming, but he doesn’t know what it is or where it will happen.

A week later, his bedspread catches fire just before he lies down to rest. Luther is careful when he goes to sleep now.

Allison and Vanya watch from afar, curious. They observe with a wariness that belies their age; to plot against heroes is to wage war, and the girls, while young, are rather sage. It takes a few days before either of them show interest in toying with their brothers. They’re cleverer than the boys and more likely to instigate battles with more permanent results, so when Klaus wakes up with a face full of makeup and Sharpie, he knows Allison has started to play.

The next week, he takes her feather boa and a stack of magazines. Klaus loves the way her eyeshadow looks on him, so he takes that, too.

It’s slow, the transition from bitterness to actual light-hearted fun. It began as a method to settle their rivalries through passive aggressive pranks, but somewhere down the line, it becomes a game.

The war lasts a full year.

As far as hobbies go, it’s a decent span of time, but then their responsibilities as the Umbrella Academy begin to collide with their recreational activities. There’s no time for jokes when their brother is bleeding, or when their sister is critically injured.

Another mission goes wrong, and with it, Ben goes, too. The pranks stop after that.

 

 

Distance grows between the Hargreeves siblings like weeds from cracks in the sidewalk. Diego expresses his anger with knife holes in the walls and shattered glassware. He stutters when he tries to speak. He leaves, and soon, the rest of the Academy follows. 

Allison moves to pursue her dreams of becoming a star, and Luther goes to live among them on the moon.

Five is... gone. He hasn’t been home in years, but the loss feels more palpable now that the gap between the children is bigger.

Diego expresses his anger with knife holes in the walls and shattered glassware. He stutters when he tries to speak. Soon he leaves, and the rest of the Academy follows.

Vanya was quiet before, but now she never opens her mouth. Her violin rests in its case for a time, unused.

Klaus is despondent, although he’s luckier than the rest — he’s never alone. Ben still stands with him, and he doesn’t tell his siblings, because Klaus is… Klaus. Feckless Klaus, his name leaves his family’s lips like an utterance of disappointment, a fallen cigarette dangling from their mouths. They won’t believe him.

The Hargreeves are divided, a team fragmented by civil war. They struggle to pick up the shards of themselves after Ben dies. They try to.

One by one, they leave, and they grow up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a break from my mcu series because endgame killed me and I had to write something about my favorite brothers,, thank you so much for reading! the next chapter will be up in a few days <3 also, please keep in mind that this fic is sort of canon divergent! it *generally* follows the canon timeline... but because the hargreeves kids are sort of... getting along, I'd like to think the events of canon change a bit, no?
> 
> talk to me!  
> [my twitter](https://twitter.com/dekusneakers?lang=en)  
> [my tumblr](https://othersideofthe-universe.tumblr.com)


	2. Of Breakfast and Funerals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *klaus voice* can I get some cereal. can I please get some cereal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta read by Jenna & Emer ilu <3

The Academy doors aren’t reopened until Reginald dies. It’s musty inside, although Grace has never stopped cleaning — the air is nostalgic and electric, an unnatural combination of new and old. It smells like their childhood, like eggs cooking on the stove, like sweat, and old paper from their father’s journal. The hallways echo with the memory of children’s laughter, the stomping of little feet, and the rustling pages of the books in their library.

There’s a harsh divide between what was and what is; the Academy is different now, foreign, and the Hargreeves siblings find no happiness in coming to the place that once was their home. Opening the doors feels like swallowing glass, slow and purposeful — it’s the drawn out agony of handling something broken that's best left untouched.

The decor inside the house hasn’t changed. Nothing has except Pogo, who’s older; Grace is the same. Her smile is still white, her hair quaffed, and she makes them sandwiches and offers them cocoa. She’s always been good to her children, and despite it all, they missed her.

The family’s reunion is bittersweet, though not because of the funeral. Nobody misses Reginald Hargreeves, not for a minute or thirty, but his death feels like the end of an era. His passing should feel like opportunity, a sparkling chance to do what they like, to go where they want, to play for longer than a half hour on Sunday. But they’re adults now, and instead it feels like the long-awaited conclusion to a terrible book.

They try to swallow the fragments of glass in their throats, but there’s no forgetting their past.

It rains during the funeral, but when the Hargreeves stand over Reginald’s ashes, their eyes are dry. Water dribbles down Ben’s monument, stoic and sad and more worthy of mourning than their father. Klaus haphazardly lifts his umbrella to cover the statue’s head.

They pay their respects in the only way they know how. The illusion of peace is fragile, teetering on the edge of a chasm, and Diego flicks it into the abyss with a softly uttered curse. Vanya huddles under Allison’s umbrella, distant and quiet, as he slanders their father’s name. Luther argues with him, heedless of their half-assed procession, and it’s messier than it was when they were children.

Luther’s fist collides with Ben’s monument. There’s a tense moment of pent-up breath as the statue tilts backwards; it falls in slow motion and cracks like thunder on the ground. A shudder reverberates through the dirt, and the decapitated head of the statue rolls into the grass.

Allison levels Luther with a disappointed look, and Vanya raises her voice at Diego. The rain worsens.

Ben — the real Ben — stands beside Klaus. A grimace twists his mouth. “The disrespect in this house.”

“You can say that again,” Klaus agrees, crouching on the ground where Luther dumped their father’s urn. He rocks backward on his heels, taking his cigarette out of his mouth and planting it into Reginald’s ashes. “Nobody has any regard for anyone but themselves here.”

Ben crosses his arms. “You understand the irony of your words versus your actions, right?”

“Absolutely.” Klaus stands, dusting himself off. “Let’s go inside. I’m fixing for some cocoa.”

“You’re fixing for something, and it’s not cocoa.”

“Oh, shut up.”

 

A temporal anomaly materializes in the backyard that afternoon, and from it emerges little Number Five. He makes himself a peanut butter and marshmallow sandwich and ignores his long-lost siblings before he disappears again. It leaves his family questioning whether his arrival was a collective hallucination.

Five reappears, not sixteen years later but the next morning. He cradles a mannequin in his arms, swaddled in a cheap shirt that’s riddled with bullet holes. He says her name is Delores, and his siblings are more fraught with his sudden appearance than they are with his plastic partner.

In his other hand, Five carries a bottle of wine. He sloshes the alcohol into a cup, and the deep red liquid dribbles down his chin as he drinks. “We’re going to die,” he says, and he offers each of his siblings a glass. It sounds less like a threat than it does an invitation. “The apocalypse is coming.”

Five’s claims of the end of the world are met with total inaction. The Hargreeves’ are preoccupied with their own petty issues and fears, and fraternizing with each other is beyond what any of them are prepared for. They pay Five no mind, and his warnings are written off as the ravings of a madman.

Luther works to solve the mystery of their father’s death, and Diego pops in and out of the mansion as he listens to his police scanner. Ben reads a book over Allison’s shoulder, and Vanya prepares for a violin concert. Klaus drinks Five’s wine but doesn’t care either way; he’s more concerned about the fact that Diego ate the last of the Lucky Charms. He tackles his brother as he’s leaving the house, tugging him back into the Academy.

“Come on, Klaus,” Diego opens the front doors, leveling the former with a glare. He steps across the threshold and stands outside. “Grow up.”

Klaus hovers in the hall, hands theatrically covering his mouth. “Diego, please! What would a good brother do?”

“Don’t hit me with ‘good brother’ bullshit. You’re a fucking adult.” Diego turns away, side-eyeing Klaus over his shoulder. His back, dark and leather-clad, is a wall between him and the mansion. “Go to the store or something. Bye.”

“I have no money, God — ” Klaus throws his hands up, gesturing helplessly. He considers slamming the door shut just for the theatrics, making the house tremble with the force of it. Klaus doubts he actually has the strength for that, but the satisfaction of doing so is almost worth attempting.

His arms fall back to his sides, and his fingers play a distracted rhythm on his thigh. Klaus grasps the handle and swings it shut with a sigh, leaning his forehead against the window. His breath fogs the glass and its touch is cool on his skin, a grounding chill that forces him to feel. “Dammit.”

Klaus stands alone for a minute or fifteen — he has trouble minding time when he’s coming down from a high — until someone clears their throat behind him. He knows it’s Ben without having to turn around, although his brother moves like smoke, without palpable attributes.

“You look like a kicked puppy.”

Klaus can hear the question in Ben’s tone, can envision the familiar arch of his eyebrow. He casts his gaze to the side and Ben’s standing in his periphery, the contemplative balance to his own impulsiveness. Klaus’ eyes flick back to the window, and he smooshes his face further into the glass. “I’m hungry.”

Ben snorts. “There’s plenty of food in the house.”

“No, Ben, I wanted Lucky Charms.” Klaus pushes himself away from the door, glowering at it as if it were Diego. “I’m disappointed.”

Ben watches Klaus sulk, his expression devoid of sympathy. “You’re ridiculous.”

“This is justified.” Klaus shakes his head. “I’m taking affirmative action.”

“Wh — ” Ben reaches out to grab him, but his hand glides through Klaus’ arm like a hologram. “What does that mean? Klaus?”

Klaus says nothing as he glances around the room. He peeks into the foyer, then trots up the stairwell. At the top of the steps, he disappears around the corner. The telltale click of a closing door resounds through the hall.

Ben sighs and rolls his neck. The house seems heavy around him, like it carries the weight of sins long past. The air is laden with tension, dense as heavy cream and destined to curdle. He can feel it in his bones, or in his memory of bones, whatever’s he’s made of — and he sees it in the looks that pass between his siblings.

It starts on a Monday.

 

“What did you do?”

Klaus glances at Ben from where he reclines on his bed. His legs are folded beneath him, and a cigarette obscures the lower half of his face. Tufts of soft pink adorn his duvet, fallen from Allison’s feather boa that trails across his shoulders.

When he exhales, smoke pours from his lips, floating through Ben. He smiles a grin stolen from the devil. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about — ” Ben heaves a sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Did you replace all of Diego’s knives with the retractable plastic ones?”

His brother sniffs but says nothing, and Ben tilts his head. “Dude.”

Klaus takes another puff of his cigarette, eyes averted. A chuckle escapes him, and he coughs as he speaks. “I totally did.”

“Klaus — ”

“It was funny, right?”

“I — I mean yeah, it was,” Ben admits, giving a hesitant nod. He brushes his thumb over the small smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “But now isn’t really the time, is it? We haven’t seen each other in like, nine years.”

“So what?” Klaus shrugs one shoulder, examining his nails. “What’s better than a reunion prank?”

Ben tucks his hands into his pockets. “I think Diego is more inclined to actually kill us now than when we were kids.”

“He’d never kill me,” Klaus’ gaze flicks up at Ben, then down again. “And sorry to break it to you, sweet brother, but you’re already dead.”

“Exactly.” Ben leans forward. “I’m fine. I’m worried about you, asshole. He’s about to go on a rampage because he thinks Luther stole his knives.”

“Oh, please. As if Luther could have any sort of creativity like that.” Klaus rolls his eyes, fingering the end of the feather boa. He tugs it tighter around his shoulders. “You take everything so seriously.”

“I think I have a right to.”

“Do not play the ‘I’m dead’ card, Ben. I swear — ”

“Aren’t you thinking about what Five said? Aren’t you even a little bothered?” Ben drops his hands. “The end of the world is pretty serious.”

“The end of the — you actually believe him?” Klaus blinks, and his mouth forms a small _‘o_.’ He throws his head back and laughs. “I mean, seriously, Ben. We haven’t seen him in sixteen years. Who knows what jumbled shit he’s dealt with in space-time?”

“Exactly,” Ben exhales, plopping himself on the edge of his brother’s bed. “That’s why we should be worried.”

“You — ” Klaus raises his finger, then moves to pinch the bridge of his nose. “It’s a little far-fetched, don’t you think?”

“‘Far-fetched’? You of all people aren’t allowed to talk about ‘far-fetched.’” Ben leans back on his hands, eyes flitting over Klaus’ ceiling. “You’re talking to a literal ghost.”

“Don’t remind me. I need to get my fix.” Klaus kicks out his legs and stands, stretching his arms over his head. “It’s not that I think Five’s a liar. I just think we need something to distract us, stupid or not. The knife joke was completely innocent.”

“Maybe, but you should’ve messed with Luther instead.” Ben makes a face. “Did you see how big he got?”

Klaus barks a laugh. “How could I not? He’s fucking huge — ”

“Yeah, imagine if you just, like, replaced all of his clothes with smaller versions.” Ben lifts his hand above his head, as if manifesting his vision. “That would be gold, and you’d live to see tomorrow instead of pissing Diego off.”

“Man, that’s way too expensive.” Klaus shakes his head. “Too many clothes to replace. Besides, it would be better if Allison pranked Luther. I’d rather there be some thrill to it.” A smile teases his lips. “Nothin’ like risking your life for a joke.”

Ben sighs. “It’s not like it was when we were kids.”

“No, it’s not.” Klaus agrees. He looks back at Ben, head tilted. “But we can try to make it like it was.”

Ben watches him, his expression resigned. He knows Klaus, understands what he’s insinuating, but he asks anyway. “Do you mean — ”

Klaus’ grin is dangerous, as sharp as Diego’s stolen knives. “Viva la prank war, brother.”

 

Klaus has a way with words, he thinks, because Allison is surprisingly easy to convince to take part. He whispers it to her in passing, a quick “ _Do you remember when_ ,” and she’s fifteen again, reliving the memories — the good ones — like a film reel. She sits in her room for a time, reminiscing, and searches through the drawer of her vanity.

Allison leafs through piles of old makeup and magazines. The inner corners of the drawer haven’t been touched in years, and her finger pads are covered with a thin film of dust. She feels the marker at the back, behind all of her old leaflets, and pulls it out with a soft huff. Allison unsheathes her weapon, a Sharpie, and peeks out into the hallway. It’s empty.

Her heels tap rhythmically on the floor as she sneaks out of her bedroom. Luther’s door closes behind her with a soft _click_.

The Hargreeves’ children’s chambers have always been small. Given the size of the house, they’re somewhat limited with just enough space for a bed and a few shelves. As adults, Luther’s room seems smaller than ever; his oversized shoes look comically large, discarded on the carpet just like he did when they were kids.

Allison scans it for a moment, and the room is quiet — peaceful. She wonders, just for a second, if this idea is worth the cleanup, or the silliness. These knickknacks, however childish, are part of their history. Allison glances over Luther’s model airplane, his boots, and his record player.

She tilts her head and smiles. There’s nothing wrong with messing with it a little.

Allison signs every item in Luther’s room. She doesn’t keep it small or conspicuous — it’s her famous _Allison Hargreeves_ signature, with the big, looping script she uses for fans and poster releases. After each twirl of her pen, she sets the object down with a flourish, turning it so that the signature faces outward. It takes over an hour, and her hand aches when she’s finished.

Allison steps back to admire her handiwork. The room looks just about the same, although each item proudly displays the calligraphy like a museum of celebrity artifacts.

She escapes with a sore wrist, tossing her half-dead marker into the trash.

 

Luther doesn’t notice at first. He blinks when he steps into the room, certain that something is different. The feng shui is unbalanced, or something like that, and he squints to spot the difference.

Luther glances around, confused, until he notices the curling swirls of ink emblazoned on his model airplane. The name _Allison Hargreeves_ is scrawled across it, bright and bold like an advertisement. One by one, he sees the black writing in different places — spiraling across his mirror, smudged on his bedspread.

Luther drops his head into his hands with a groan. “Not again.”

 

Luther has never been the most creative of the bunch. That title went to Klaus, who if he wasn’t starting fires was playful by nature. He’d been reigning king during the first phase of their prank war as children, although he’d always had the added benefit of Ben’s wit. They’d worked together — Luther worked alone.

Each time Luther had tried to retaliate, the results were strikingly boring; he ended up hiding his siblings’ masks on a bookshelf, or fighting with Diego for no reason other than on suspicion of pranking. Back then, he could never tell for sure who was behind each joke.

This time, it literally has Allison’s name written all over it, but Luther doesn’t want to prank her. They’ve been through too much for him to really embrace any inner childishness, and she’s never been one to get under his skin, not in the way Number Two does.

He settles for flipping all the furniture in Allison’s room so it’s upside down. It seems innocent enough, but as he lifts her bed frame and the mattress smacks the floor, Luther feels some regret.

The vanity he’s more careful with, removing each trinket and placing it beside the upturned table. It’s exhausting work, and the entire project turns out to be more of an inconvenience for him, because Luther has no intention of actually breaking his sister’s things.

It takes him a long time, and when Allison sees the damage, Luther’s the only one with the strength to efficiently fix it. When she asks for his help, he obliges without hesitance.

 

At breakfast the next morning, Allison recounts the story with her fingers pinched on the bridge of her nose.

“What’s the point of even doing the prank then?” Klaus mumbles through a mouthful of cereal. “He didn’t even inconvenience you.”

“He did.” Allison sighs. “He made my mattress dusty and gross.”

“Tragic,” Ben says, although their sister can’t hear him. Klaus nods his agreement.

They fall silent as Klaus chews, and the kitchen is tranquil. Sunlight streams through the window, illuminating dust motes that glitter and float. Mom cooks eggs on the stove, humming a soft lullaby that makes her children’s eyelids droop. The air is thick with the smell of food and the inexplicable scent of home.

A long time has passed since they last did this, embracing the quiet companionship that comes with growing up together. It’s moments like these, the siblings think, that they missed. It’s sleepy and ethereal, and it almost makes Reginald’s sadism worth it.

Almost.

It’s a lot to think about, and the day is still young. Allison rubs her eyes, reaching for an upturned coffee cup on the table.

“Don’t touch that!” Klaus shatters the relative peace with a shout, and everyone in the room flinches.

“Wh — what the hell, Klaus?” Allison retracts her hand and makes a vague gesture with it. “Why can’t I touch it? Is it dirty?”

“No,” Klaus says, wide-eyed. The rings on his fingers clink together and the feathers from his cuffs flutter as he waves his hands. “Don’t lift it. I made that mistake earlier.”

“What are you talking about — ”

“‘Morning,” Number Five interrupts them, striding into the kitchen with more confidence than a thirteen-year-old in flannel pajamas should be able to project. “Please tell me we have coffee?”

He casts an expectant look around the room, blinking in the early sunlight. His siblings still treat him like a mirage, a fragile figment of their collective imagination, but the way Five’s feet patter across the floor is real. His pajamas are rumpled and worn, and his voice is demanding as he presses his palm flat onto the back of a chair. “Well?”

Allison passes a glance at the mugs on the table. It’s set beautifully, and all the cups are upside down, aligned with each placemat like they’re ready for use. Her gaze flicks to meet Klaus’, and he gives a subtle shake of his head. She looks back to Five. “I — I’m not sure. Dad didn’t like coffee, you know that.”

“So what? Dad’s not here.” Five spies the cups on the table and reaches for one, ignoring Klaus’ aborted cry of “No!”

As soon as he lifts the mug, coffee pours out in a waterfall. Five stumbles backwards, splashing some onto his pajamas. He swears, and their mother turns around to tut gently at him.

“What the hell is this?” Five slams the cup back onto the table, fixing his siblings with a glare. “Why?”

Klaus dips his head, stretching out his shirt to show a telltale brown stain. “When I lifted mine, it was hot chocolate.”

“You all — ” Five closes his mouth, scrutinizing the mark on his brother’s shirt as if it were fabricated. He spins on his heel, swinging open one of the cabinets. He grumbles to himself as he retrieves a cereal bowl, shifting across the counter to their recently acquired coffee maker. Five pours until the carafe is empty, and brown liquid sloshes dangerously in the bowl as he picks it up.

“Fuck this house,” he announces, plopping himself in the chair at the head of the table. He touches his lips to the edge of the bowl and sips.

Klaus exchanges a look with Ben, then turns back to his sister.

“Did you do this?” Allison whispers, side-eyeing Five as he slurps.

“No,” Klaus mouths back, shaking his head. “I have no idea who did it.”

At the stove, Grace’s lips turn upwards into a tiny smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> google how do I become an honorary Hargreeves
> 
> thank you for reading!!


	3. Of Sisters and Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> five to luther: this is why mom doesn't ****ing love you!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u [Kels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissSugarPlum) and [Jay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Falconswipe) for beta reading this and keeping me from going crazy <3

When Five wakes up the following morning, Delores is missing.

At first, he thinks he might’ve left her downstairs at the kitchen table — she had joined him for lunch yesterday — but he’d carried her around for so many years and never forgotten where he put her; why now?

The only variables he hasn’t accounted for are his siblings. When his dream-foggy brain is coherent enough to register Delores’ absence, he knows they’re to blame.

Five barges into Luther’s room with their father’s rifle. He shakes his brother out of sleep, positioning the barrel of a gun under his nose. Luther raises his hands above his head and asks what the hell Five is doing, but his brother only answers him with a question.

“Where is she?”

Luther blinks at the rifle, then his gaze meets Five’s. “Where is who?”

Five hefts the gun so it’s level with Number One’s forehead. Luther crosses his eyes to stare at the barrel. “Delores. Where is Delores?”

“I — I have no idea.”

“Don’t lie to me.” Five flicks off the safety of the gun, and Luther sinks further into his pillow. “If I found out you took her — ”

“I don’t have your damn mannequin, Five — ”

“She’s not a — ”

Luther grasps the barrel of the rifle, twisting it upward to rip it out of his brother’s hands. He tears it away and throws it to the side, shoving Five back. “What the hell is wrong with you? You’re gonna shoot me?”

Five stumbles backwards, passing Luther a look of disdain. He straightens his pajamas and clears his throat. “One of you took her, and I swear, when I find out who — ”

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t me.” Luther turns away, reaching to grab the gun. He tucks it into his closet and peers at Five over his shoulder. “Where the hell did you get this? Isn’t it dad’s?”

Five lifts his chin. “None of your business,” he spits, and strides out of the room.

Luther watches him leave. He mutters to himself, annoyed, and shuts the door with a force that shakes the house.

Five stomps down the hallway, tearing open each door he passes on the way. He storms into the rooms, hair mussed and voice high, and despite his threats on his siblings’ lives he’s rather cute in his post-sleep form.

When he kicks open Klaus’ door, his brother is passed out face down on his mattress. Five moves to wake him up, but he’s certain that no amount of dual craftiness split between Klaus and his drugs could equate to his own genius. He pauses, then turns away and closes the door. He passes but doesn’t touch Ben’s.

He ignores Allison’s as well, and Vanya’s. Five always liked her best.

When he reaches Diego’s door, Five doesn’t give him the privilege of knocking first. He spatial jumps into the bedroom, and finds his brother cleaning up newspaper on the floor.

“What the hell is this?” Five says, passing a disgusted look over the mess of leaflets.

“Sh — fuck, Five. I hate when you do that,” Diego stumbles backwards, resting his hand over his chest. “Good morning to you, too.”

Five ignores him, making a vague gesture at the ground. “Why’s your room such a goddamn mess? Are you six?”

“No, I’m Two,” Diego jokes, lips twitching. Five’s expression doesn’t change, and Diego clears his throat. “I was just, uh,” He tosses a crumpled pile of paper into his trash can. “Doing research.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Five crosses his arms and kicks the papers aside. “Where’s Delores?”

Diego leans down to shuffle together the last of the leaflets. He doesn’t look up as he speaks. “Uh, who?”

“The ma — my partner.” Five moves so he stands directly in front of his brother, still squatting on the ground. “You know who it is.”

“Mmm, not sure about that. Sorry.” Diego glances upward and presses his lips into a thin line. “If I see her, I’ll let you know.”

“I don’t fucking believe you,” Five hisses. He leans forward to jab a finger into Diego’s shoulder. “If you did something to her, I swear — ”

“Okay, that’s fine.” Diego holds up his hands to placate him. They’re dusted with newspaper ink and dabs of paste. Five wrinkles his nose at the strange smell. “You come into my room pissed off, even though we haven’t seen you in almost two decades, but it’s cool. I didn’t do anything.”

Five rolls his eyes and scoffs. “You’re ridiculous.” He turns away, striding towards the hallway. Diego watches, unimpressed, as Five juts out his hip and knocks the trash can over on his way out. “Whatever.”

Five makes his way back to his room, intent to check again for Delores, but when he swings open the door, he sees her. He rushes forward, moving to cradle her familiar form in his arms, but stops just short of grabbing her.

It’s Delores, but it’s not his Delores. This mannequin is stuck together with dabs of newspaper and modge podge, loosely packed so that it looks like her skin is flaking away. The model is an abstract trash fire, the shittiest papier-mâché rendition of anything that Five has ever seen, and he’s equally offended by this as he is by the real Delores going missing.

He throws it on the floor, where fake-Delores cracks like an egg. It’s still wet and goopy, sopping into a puddle on the carpet. The paper and modge podge peel away in globs, and Five kicks it across the room. It explodes on impact, decorating the floors and walls with sticky craft supplies. Five stares at the disrespectful model and screams. It tears from his throat painfully, bloodcurdling and laden with rage.

Down the hall, Diego locks his bedroom door and slips out the window, quiet as an assassin. When Five spatial jumps into Diego’s room, all he finds are remnants of papier-mâché littering the bottom of the trash can. He kicks it over again and leaves, fists curled so tight that his nails prick his palms.

Five spends the afternoon combing the house, searching for a familiar plastic arm or the telltale polka dot pattern of Delores’ shirt.

Diego doesn’t come home until late into the night. He moves slowly, silent as a shadow, but the soft click of the lock alerts his family of his presence. Five teleports to meet him at the front door, hefting a rifle on his shoulder.

Diego raises his hands as the door opens, looking far less worried than a man in front of the barrel of a gun should be. “I don’t have Delores.”

“Obviously not,” Five’s eyebrow flicks upward, but his expression remains impassive. “Where is she?”

“Come on, man. I just got home.” Diego tries to sidle past his brother, but Five only pushes the rifle further into his chest. Diego freezes at the touch of the barrel. “Seriously?”

Five snorts. “You deserve this and more for what you did to her.”

“It’s not like I destroyed her,” Diego’s shoulder rises in a half-shrug, but he stops moving as Five switches off the safety on the gun. “Did you check your room?”

“Christ, you sound like Mom,” Five spits, but the pressure against Diego’s chest lessens slightly. “I’ve been home all day. I think I’d notice her.”

Diego’s head tilts. “I’d recommend checking again.”

“How could you possibly...” Five blinks, retracting his weapon and pointing it downward. “If you’re lying — ”

“Go look,” Diego points at the stairwell with his chin. His hands fall down to his sides. “If I’m wrong, shoot me.”

Five scowls, “Don’t tempt me,” and disappears in a flash of blue.

When Five emerges in his room, the real Delores is back, reclining in the spot where he left her the night before. He stumbles forward in his excitement, grasping her hand to make sure she isn’t a poorly cobbled version of herself. When he touches her, Delores’ skin is plasticky and cool, just as it’s supposed to be.

Five contemplates whether the slight is worth killing Diego in his sleep, but he’s so happy to cradle Delores in his arms, he forgets his desire for revenge.

 

Vanya has never been one to participate in family events, although unlike Five, it wasn’t by her own decision. She was a quiet child and a rather sad adult, as dull and emotionless as Five’s discarded papier-mâché mannequin.

Despite her siblings’ general impressions of her, Vanya is more than she led them to believe; they saw part of that in her book, and more of it at their father’s funeral, where she stood up to Diego. She had functioned for years under a self-imposed stereotype, but Vanya’s silence is more protective than it was anything else.

Her siblings are wary of her now, fearful of her detailing their deepest secrets in a sequel to her novel, hesitant to trust her — she knows that. This silence makes her a predator, as stealthy and lethal as a viper among mice.

In a prank war, though, her relative shyness is to her advantage. They’re wary of her, but nobody expects any engagement from Vanya on the joke front.

Vanya says nothing as she watches the chaos unfurl around her. A silent observer, she saw Mom clean up the coffee at breakfast, after her siblings had cleared out of the kitchen. She spotted Allison leaving Luther’s room with a marker drained of ink. When Diego had replaced Delores, she heard Five scream bloody murder in his bedroom.

As much as she cares for Five, she privately thinks the papier-mâché prank was the best thus far. It’s clever and silly, the special brand of humor that Vanya can appreciate, even at Five’s expense. She’d do something like that had she been more playful, and if her siblings trusted her.

Vanya wants so badly to be part of something, so she decides to try.

While she values the comic quality of craft mannequins, obnoxious and loud have never been her style. Instead of participating overtly, Vanya‘s prank is as quiet as she is.

Under the cover of night, she replaces the photos around the house with self-portraits.

She starts small, with the framed pictures of the Umbrella Academy kids debuting on magazine covers, and slowly moves onto the larger paintings of the family in costume.

Vanya commissions prints of her, edited to look painted, and prints multiple copies of herself in different poses. She recreates each photo down to the setting, and little by little, the paintings in the house become miniature shrines to Vanya alone.

By the third day, half of the living room is papered with the fake paintings. No one has noticed.

Vanya has one picture to recreate left; she studies Number Five’s pose in the painting Reginald hung up after the former went missing. She memorizes the placement of his arms, the expression on his face, and places her camera at the end of the table. Vanya situates herself on a chair in the living room, positioning each limb the way Five sat all those years ago. On the table, the camera flashes, each blink a second in the countdown. It snaps a photo as Five walks in.

“What are you doing?”

Vanya jumps, spinning around in her seat to stare wide-eyed at her brother. “Nothing.”

Five holds a mug in his hand, brimming with hot coffee. He blows the steam curling around his nose and takes a sip, smacking his lips together. “Nothing? You’re taking photographs. What for?”

Vanya turns back to glance at the camera on the table. She passes a guilty look at Five. “Um, because of vanity?”

“Somehow I don’t believe that.” Five places his coffee on the table, slipping a coaster beneath it. He crosses his arms and leans against the table. “I’ve loved your additions to the family photo album, by the way. Really an improvement, if you ask me.”

Vanya’s eyebrows rise, and she brushes a stray strand of hair out of her face. “I didn’t realize anyone noticed.”

“I saw you hanging one up yesterday, otherwise I probably wouldn’t have seen,” Five admits, eyeing his shoes. “Unique and clever. Much better than what Diego did to Delores.”

Vanya bites her lip to keep from smiling. She doesn’t dare confess that she thinks Diego’s prank was funny. Instead she hums in reply.

“Still as gaudy in here as I remember,” Five continues, passing a glance around the living room. “You’re definitely making it better. I’m excited to see the one you just took,” he nods in the camera’s direction, lifting his coffee off the saucer. “Let me know when it goes up.”

“Sure,” Vanya says, now unsure about whether she’ll proceed with the prank, since she’s been caught.

Five leaves, and she’s left alone with her miniature collection of extravagant selfies.

 

Vanya gets the image printed anyway. It’s the last one in the room, and it would be incomplete otherwise. The photo of her is ornate and poetic, her expression an exaggeration rendition of Five’s easy confidence. She thinks it’s funny.

It takes another day or so for someone else to comment on it. Vanya’s sitting alone in the foyer, nose buried in a book, when Klaus strides in.

He notices slowly. She sees it in way he walks, quick and then treading to a halt, his arms extended like he’s about to point. He looks over his shoulder, talking to someone that Vanya can’t see. His lips move, but she doesn‘t hear what he says.

Klaus can feel the unfamiliar aura of the room; it’s vaguely off-balance, like someone had taken every piece of furniture and moved it two inches to the right. It’s the same yet different, and he blinks once. When he sees Vanya, theatrically strewn across a chair in the painting where Five used to be, he wonders if he’s sober. He squeezes his eyes shut, hard, and opens them again.

“Do you see Vanya there, too?”

“Yeah,” Ben nods, turning around in place to stare at each picture. His gaze is wide and starry as he studies them. “I’m — wow.”

“Wow,” Klaus nods. He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning forward to get a closer look at the detail of the image. “I’m kind of impressed. How long have these been here?”

“A week, give or take,” Vanya says from the couch, and Klaus whirls to face her, noticing her presence for the first time.

“Oh, Vanya! Hey.”

Vanya’s lips part in a small smile. “Hey.”

”A week, huh?” Klaus’ mouth is pursed as he tilts his head. He steps closer to her, offering his hand. “I gotta say, you did a great job, sis. Very subtle, and very you.”

Vanya feels a glow of satisfaction at the words. She high fives his proffered palm.  “Thanks.”

Klaus’ smile is bright. “No problem.”

They stay there for some time, absorbing Vanya’s handiwork. The silence is comfortable, although over the years the siblings have grown unaccustomed to each other’s company. Yellow sunshine filters through the skylights above, basking the room in honey colors. It’s warm, like a blanket draped across their shoulders, or a hug. Looking at each other, they laugh once, then twice. Allison hears them and when she stops by, she too notices Vanya’s portraits for the first time.

Diego joins them next, more stoic and dark than the others, but just as hungry for companionship. He hovers in the corner, twists his knife on his fingertip, and smiles.

Luther comes after, seating himself on the couch. Five walks by with a new cup of coffee.

It’s tentative, this blossoming friendship they have; they’ve always been family, but it hasn’t always been true.

It’s this, Vanya thinks, that they missed all their lives. The Hargreeves had grown up together, lived and learned together, but they had never been given the opportunity to be children. As adults, they finally have the chance.

This alliance between them is new and strange, wobbly on its feet, but it has plenty of room to grow. And the apocalypse — should it come at all — well, it’s better if they stand together than divided.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaand that's a wrap! thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed! catch ya on the flip, I'll be back with some mcu stuff soooon


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